


the moonlit forest

by silencedmockingjay



Category: Helix Waltz (Video Game)
Genre: ...a little, ...hopefully, Alan-centric, Alternate Universe - Horror, Creepy, Drabble Collection, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Other, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, i have no idea what im doing?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 06:29:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17678228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silencedmockingjay/pseuds/silencedmockingjay
Summary: It’s quiet, in the forest.Alan doesn’t know when he notices it. When the moon hanging in the sky turned as darkest red as blood? When the snowdrops began to glow with a soft white light? When the shadows started trailing after him, slinking around him and sizing him up like an opponent?Either way, he keeps on walking.He doesn’t have a destination in mind, not really. The sounds of his footsteps are the only things he can hear here, and it doesn’t unnerve him so much as calm him, the quiet sinking deep into his bones.He hasn’t heard a peep since he’s entered. No signs that the forest is inhabited at all.So many people call this the cursed forest,he muses.But is the forest really cursed, or is its residents?





	1. silence.

**Author's Note:**

> \- please don't ask me to update this ASAP, this is a joy project that i write on in my free time. updates will be irregular.   
> \- i don't know what i'm gong, or where i'm going with this. This started from an image in my head and evolved into a world that i have some idea of. i write as the ideas come, so if some parts are inconsistent, i'm deeply sorry.   
> \- these are technically a series of drabbles.   
> \- they're cross-posted to my tumblr @silencedfalcon under the tag "the moonlit forest". 
> 
> With that in mind, please enjoy! 
> 
> You have been warned. The forest takes no prisoners, only souls.

It’s quiet, in the forest. 

Alan doesn’t know when he notices it. When the moon hanging in the sky turned as darkest red as blood? When the snowdrops began to glow with a soft white light? When the shadows started trailing after him, slinking around him and sizing him up like an opponent?

Either way, he keeps on walking. 

He doesn’t have a destination in mind, not really. The sounds of his footsteps are the only things he can hear here, and it doesn’t unnerve him so much as calm him, the quiet sinking deep into his bones. 

He hasn’t heard a peep since he’s entered. No signs that the forest is inhabited at all. 

_ So many people call this the cursed forest, _ he muses.  _ But is the forest really cursed, or is its residents?  _


	2. shadow.

When he notices she’s there, he nearly jumps in fear. But he doesn’t, and for that he gives himself a mental pat on the back.

The elf stays in the shadows, but the moonlight glints off her robes and chalk-white skin, washing it red. He knows that if she’d truly chosen to, she could have walked up behind him and blasted his head off his shoulders with elf magic with no problem.

So he keeps his sword sheathed, and turns to face her silently. An open gesture of peace.

After what seems like an eternity, the elf finally comes out from behind the trees, and it’s then that something clicks in Alan’s brain, because he knows her. 

“Asteria,” is out of his mouth before he realises it.

Something flickers in her eyes, shaded by the hood of her cloak, before she takes another step and they are swallowed up by shadow. 

“Alan,” she muses, as if testing out how the name sounds on her lips. “Captain of the Finsel City Guard, a now-defunct civilian organisation. Disappeared three months ago, with all traces of his existence vanishing from his bunk and his home.”

“Asteria,” Alan replies in kind, tilting his head. “Elf servant of the Sakan family, secret lover to Juven Sakan, Daughter of Stars. Disappeared a year ago while venturing into the Sulla forest, never to return. What are you doing here?”

She stays where she is, unmoving, in the shadow of a tree. “You aren’t cursed.” she says, and it isn’t a question. 

“What do you mean?” Alan says aloud. “Why haven’t you come back to Finsel?” 

Asteria only blinks at him slowly, taking another step forward into a shaft of moonlight, illuminating her features. Steadily, carefully, she takes off her hood. And it’s only then that Alan realises, with a jolt of realisation. 

Her right eye is a swirling, moving black void- nothing but shadow. 

“Maybe I should ask you that question, Finsel’s hero,” and her voice swirls with power and derision and the weight of the world. “Why didn’t you go back after you left it in ruins?”


	3. gone.

Alan stares.

And then he laughs.

He laughs, and laughs, and laughs, because that is so close and yet so far from the truth it’s so funny. The trees pick up on his echoes, the remnants of a truth so painful it hurts, and a breeze starts to form.

Once he’s done, he wipes a tear from his eye, before straightening up to face Asteria again, who hasn’t moved at all, unshaken by his outburst.

“Tenebrae,” is all he has to say in response, grinning at the sight of Asteria’s one green eye dilating into slits, the darkness in the other writhing and spilling out of her eye and dripping down her face like tar. “You aren’t the real Asteria.”

Asteria’s mouth opens, and black goo pours forth. “Lies!” she demands, her fingernails sharpening into curved claws like a crow’s talons.

“Guil-ty,” Alan singsongs, smiling wistfully at the memories it brings up, before unsheathing his sword.

The amber stone set in his hilt glints in the red light as his sword slices through what used to be Asteria’s body. With a final shriek of anger, the shadows burst into a murder of crows, wings beating the air, cawing in frustration as they fly off into the forest.

Alan watches them go, blade stained with black, before he stoops down to wipe his sword on the grass, wincing.

“That was a nice attempt,” he says to the forest, now silent once again. “But Asteria’s long dead, now.”

Nothing answers him except for the echoes of his voice.

Alan sheaths his sword, and continues walking.


	4. thoughts.

He knows he’s been walking for hours, the ache in his feet slowly throbbing in time with his heartbeat, but the blood-red moon still hangs in the sky. The snowdrops are still glowing at his feet, too; glowing and fading all together,

Maybe once, he would have brought her here, to the forest before it had been cursed; to brush the soft petals of the flowers; to watch her dart from tree to tree, examining bark and leaves and insects; to gaze at her from the corner of his eyes as her laughter rings out, her eyes sparkling in joy at finally being free from the shackles that chained her to noble life. 

But now?

His mouth curls in a bitter smile. 

He betrayed her in the end, anyways. Left them all to ruin. 

_ Destroyer of Finsel. Betrayer of Finsel.  _

_ And a hero to the rest of the world.  _

_ When will you answer for your crimes?  _


	5. hunted.

It isn’t safe to sleep on the ground, here. Alan’s learned that the hard way after days where he seeks out a patch of grass, only to lie down on it and have the ground give way beneath his back. More often than not, he climbs out of the seemingly random-placed pits with a couple of new bruises and an extra layer of mud and grass on his uniform. And with the fact that the pools are either swirling with mud, shadows or a portal to another dimension, he hasn’t had the chance to properly bathe in ages. The inhabitants of the forest have been attacking him less regularly since he’s started to thoroughly smell of blood and wind and earth; he has a theory it’s because of the magic. 

 

He probably looks like a monster, too. 

 

Of course, that means that the ones that  _ do  _ attack aren’t attracted to him. They just want something from him. And he has a very good guess as to  _ what.  _

 

That doesn’t mean he’s going to give it up. 

 

Alan unsheathes his sword as the first howl shatters the silence of the forest, as the gleaming eyes that were watching him from the trees withdraw into darkness, as the shadows begin to  _ move.  _

 

The true hunters are here, and he is nothing but their prey. 

 

He knows about them, has heard of their notoriety even before he’s wandered into the forest. The descendants of Fenrir, the great wolf mentioned in folk myths; the Beast of Slaughter’s children, the bringers of Ragnarok. 

 

_ Once they lock onto a target, they will pursue it until they die.  _

 

But that doesn’t matter, never has, never will. 

 

Alan peels back his lips and  _ smiles,  _ unsettling enough to make the wolves retreat, if only for a little. They snarl at each other uncertainly, pausing, until a brave (or perhaps foolish) one takes a step forward. 

 

_ Come at me, then.  _

 

_ An entire city crumbled into ruin because of this,  _ is his only thought as the first shadow wolf leaps at him, eyes blazing with hunger, jaws slavering with drool. 

 

_ Do you really think I’ll let you have it this easily? _


	6. falling.

The first wolf leaps at him, snarling in hunger, and Alan ducks just in time, the wolf’s fur barely grazing him. 

 

When he stands up, raking a hand through his hair, his palms come away from his head with a sticky, black, tar-like substance that squelches uncomfortably between his fingers. But he doesn’t have time to deliberate more on exactly  _ what  _ it is before he’s dodging a flurry of claws and snarling jaws. 

 

Their numbers are seemingly endless, more and more pouring from behind the trees and bushes and leaping down from branches, but no matter how hard he swings his sword it just passes right through them. Like he’s slicing through shadow. 

 

He growls in frustration as he feels claws rake through his sleeve, before jumping back and away from the wolf. The wound doesn’t just sting, it  _ burns,  _ and Alan grits his teeth as he pulls his sleeve down to cover the scratches. He has to get away from them far enough so he can rest and bandage his wounds, but there are just too many of them to beat a hasty retreat. 

 

He briefly considers climbing one of the trees, but he doesn’t want to take his chances. He doesn’t know if they can climb trees, and he doesn’t want to find out the hard way. 

 

He has something he needs to protect. 

 

Alan bites down on his lips to muffle a shriek of pain as teeth clamp onto his leg and  _ pull, _ before he wrenches his leg free and stomps harshly down on the wolf’s head, silver-tipped boots coming into contact with its forehead. The wolf yips in pain, before melting away before his eyes into a puddle of shadow. 

 

_ Oh. Silver… wolves…  _

 

_...I’m a dumbass.  _

 

Instantly, he lashes out with a kick at the wolves that would’ve made Colonel Loire weep in joy. The wolves screech to a halt, snarling and pacing uncertainly, eyes that are void of life staring at the silver gleam of his boot soles. 

 

_ They know to stay away, now.  _

 

“Be good boys and stay away,” Alan says, pointing his sword at them as he slowly takes a step backward. 

 

Bad mistake. 

 

Too late, he remembers his own advice:  _ Avoid clean patches of grass.  _

 

The ground gives way beneath him, and he falls. 

 


End file.
